


A Life Again

by Caddock (laureate)



Series: A Song of Icy Lords and Fiery Rings [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:01:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laureate/pseuds/Caddock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned Stark gets dumped in Middle Earth.  Aragorn has feelings about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amon Hen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evocates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/gifts).



It has been two months of travel already, and most of their journey is still ahead of them. How Pippin managed to wheedle himself away so soon from Diamond's side will always be a mystery to him, but lord knows his wife is even more a Took than he is. In a few years it is more than likely that Diamond would be joining the two of them as they take up their cloaks and travel again. They are still sworn to the service of their lords, and, in all honesty, sometimes they just _miss_ the rest of the world, in a way that Sam never seems to. They all have their burdens that they share together, and even though Frodo is five years past, there is still an emptiness that makes them all long to be whole.

For now, Sam has Rosie, and he and Pippin have their journeys, and it is enough.

This is always the hardest part of the journey, the slow moments they linger here at Amon Hen. It does not matter how far they have travelled that day, whether it has been for extra hours and miles in hopes of making it before dusk or little more than half a day's journey, they always stop here at the ruins. There is no marking that notes where Boromir fell at last, pierced through with arrows in his and Pippin's defense. They aren't needed. Neither Meriadoc Brandybuck nor Peregrin Took will ever forget where that place stands, even should the forest finally swallow up all that is left of the ruins, and the underbrush of the forest eliminate every hint of a path.

It is almost as if their souls are drawn to it, and Merry, in his heart, holds a quiet certainty that it will be this way for every death of his friends that he survives. Never fully healed, never the same, never forgotten.

They make camp in the small clearing; the eyes of the statue ever-watchful, ever judging.They share silence around the fire, and they do not pretend to take turns for watch, for neither of them will sleep this night.

It is the next morning, as they break camp again for the journey to Edoras, that Pippin suddenly stills, and Merry's head quirks to the side. They share a look, each alternating to slinging the remainder of their necessities over their horses (For at last they have outgrown the need for a hobbit's pony, even if it is harder to mount a taller beast) as the other stands guard. They are soon to leave and avoid the fight, both swords drawn even as they move to mount when the source of the disturbance finally crashes his way out of the underbrush and collapses.

A man, gravely wounded, and Pippin is the first to sheathe his sword and move to his side, as Merry turns back to the horses to grab what healing supplies they carried with them. They were no great healers but this man needed whatever aid he could manage. He turns at Pippin's sharp inhale, and nearly falls against the horse himself.

It is Boromir.

Only… it is not. This man is older, more grey and dark. It is who Boromir would be, in another ten years or so, having lived life well and long and joyful. It aches to see so familiar a face marked in so foreign ways.

It freezes them both, for a moment, but Merry is quick to recover, carefully helping the near-unconscious man to sit up and drink as he goes about tending to the more obvious wounds. There are few lacerations, it is all mostly large bruising and some scratches from the tumble through the forest, as if chased. He also looks as though he had been half-drowned, though whether that was a result of a dip into the Anduin or the fact he looked nearly come back from the dead was a different story altogether.

Still, there were graver wounds than the ones Merry could see, and his right arm twinged in his own memory of such an injury. Merry turns to Pippin to find his cousin's face set, and waiting for instruction.

"Pippin, take Faranere and go. Ride to Aragorn. He-" Merry swallows, throat dry from all that has happened, and the worry of what it will mean. For all of them, but mostly for Aragorn. "He needs to know. And this man needs the healing he can provide."

Merry moves to help the man stand, even as Pippin saddles up and mounts. Pippin hesitates one last moment, as the cousins-more-akin-to-brothers' eyes meet, before turning to go, urging his steed to the haste she was born to, the way a horse of the Rohirrim was born to fly.

Merry's attention turns back to the man, who is beginning to find his legs again. "There it is, now. Up you go. Gehaere's a gentle soul, and he'll carry you slow and easy." They make an interesting sight, Merry is sure, the hobbit helping the Man to mount, but none are there to see them in this land of forgotten heroes and seats lost to time.

The man groans, and is leaning forward far too heavily for Merry to feel quite comfortable, but the man seem to be able to keep himself astride, and Merry certainly does not have the strength to carry him. It will be a slow journey, but Merry knows that Pippin can make the journey in week of hard riding, and with the distance he will have managed to travel in that time, as well as the fact that 'a man with Boromir's face' would throw all of Minas Tirith (and, likely, most of Gondor) into a flurry of action, it should not be too long for help to arrive. This, at least, is Merry's hope.


	2. The Walk

Ned woke to find himself on a horse, from which he nearly topples. His last memory had been clear enough, kneeling before all of King's Landing after decrying himself a traitor, waiting those few tense seconds for the sword to fall. And then… nothing. Nothing had happened at all, only a great amount of dark, and the sensation of falling, running, straining against a forest that seemed to actively hinder him, for he had to reach… had to reach _something_ , niggling at the back of his memory.

The horse stopped, and it is then that Ned noticed the little man guiding it. Well, perhaps not so little, a good foot shorter than himself, but still taller than what he remembers of Tyrion. Ned isn't quite sure what to make of him. Still...

"Master Dwarf-"

"Oh, no sir. I'm not a dwarf; I'm a hobbit. Dwarrows and hobbits aren't all that similar, mind." The little man–or 'hobbit', rather–looks up at Ned with amusement (ill-concealed but genuine, and kind) in his eyes. He does a short little bow. "Merry Brandybuck, of Buckland, at your service."

Ned nodded his head in return, an engrained response while the world seems to tilt at the strangeness of the words. Never has Eddard heard of Buckland, or seen such a place on any map. The mention of dwarf as though they were common and whatever this strange thing known as a… hobbit seemed to be. Apparently, 'hobbits' were naturally clean-shaven, to judge by the age in this one's eyes. He'd thought, at first, the little man a youth, but his voice was too deep for that, and he seemed older even than Robb, last time he had seen his son. Cleanshaven and with… were those the man's _feet_. Large, hairy and un-booted. He swayed in the saddle, feeling all the more lightheaded.

"Whoah, hold fast there!" Ned grasped at the reigns as the- _Merry_ moved to help steady him, and keep him from falling. The hands were worn, used to work and to wielding a sword.

Merry's smile was bright as he stepped back, and began guiding the horse, choosing now to walk alongside. "Careful, stranger, I'd not have you upset what little healing I managed."

Ned's hand rose to his side, careful to press gently against the odd bulges he suddenly noticed, feeling the cool press of herbs and some sort of compress. He was silent a moment, trying to decide what was truly to be said. It was.. odd, to be so casually addressed, and yet Master Merry–perhaps lord?–had already rendered him service, clearly with no knowledge of who he was.

"I thank you, Master Merry." A strange name, but it fit well the smiling figure beside him, as genuine in his smiles as his eyes seemed wise, even if there was a peculiar softness about them–familiarity unshared. Regardless, it was… refreshing, that baldfaced honesty. He had missed it, in King's Landing.

"I am-" a pause. Would he even know what he spoke of? Perhaps. "Lord Eddard Stark, of Winterfell."

The smile seemed to falter for half a moment, brows scrunching for a fraction of a second, as though he had been expecting–hoping, rather–for a different answer. Still, it returned no less bright than before, though perhaps a tad more tinged with curiosity as he responded with that same cheer.

"Well, Lord Stark, I cannot say I know of such a place,"–Ned noticed that, even as he knew the meaning, something sounded… off, in the words–"but perhaps we may find those answers in Gondor. Strider– King Elessar is more than likely to have some sort of map to look at. Though the healers will see t' you, first. You are wounded, still, far beyond my meagre talents." Merry gave him a searching look, and for half a moment Ned felt… afraid. Eyes that had been filled with cheer now seemed probing and piercing, as though the depth of his character was being weighed in that gaze. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, when the gaiety returned, softened by a strange, peaceful sort of kindness and quiet… understanding.

Who was this little man, to have seen him so deeply, and with such truth?

* * *

As the doors to the hall slammed open, all sound ceased.

Aragorn rose to stand from his chair, the movement checked only by Arwen's gentle hand on his shoulder, and his own shock at seeing… Pippin.

"Master Hobbit, you are not yet expected for some weeks."

Pippin didn't even seem to register the words, stumbling further as his body heaved with his gasps, out of breath.

"My lord, there is-… at-…"

Aragorn's brow creased. Pippin, though sworn to his service and the service of Gondor, rarely remembered such formality, and often times would catch himself about to ask 'Strider'.

Pippin took a deep breath, and plowed through whatever interjection Aragorn was about to make.

"My lord, there is- Merry and I found a man at Amon Hen. Wounded, gravely."

The councilors looked about ready to intervene, clearly dismissive of the interruption. Even Faramir seemed confused, and as Aragorn was about to call back to order again, Pippin sank to his knees in exhaustion and looked his King straight in the eye.

"Aragorn, he… he looks exactly like Boromir."


End file.
